


Je Vis, Je Meurs

by tiny_gangster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, M/M, Prostitution, Rating for later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_gangster/pseuds/tiny_gangster
Summary: Jehan leaves Paris behind, venturing to America, to New Orleans in search of inspiration. There he sees Montparnasse, a vain, wild, dangerous prostitute. Beautiful. The perfect muse.





	1. Chapter 1

New Orleans had seen men come and go, free men, men in chains. Men with and without work. With and without families. It had gone from the hands of the French, to the Spaniards, and back again, before finally coming into the hands of the Americans by way of the Louisiana Purchase at the turn of the 19th century. The Haitian revolution made it a hive until the rest of the world clued in. Still, by 1830 most of the population, free or not, with families or without, spoke French. They were emigres, or creole, or neither. There was something about the city that hugged the Mississippi that drew people in. Sluggish, crawling, jostling for position in the sweet heat of the French quarter.

Jehan was no different. He’d crossed the channel from France to London, and from London he had taken a boat. For thirty five days on the sea he’d arrived in New York. And from New York he began his way down, into the Deep South, until he could lay eyes on the place. He took the train from Lake Pontchartrain, and then to Elysian Fields Avenue (named after the Avenue des Champs-Élysées).  Tired, gaunt faced and weary eyed he climbed out and he crested the grassy banks of the Mississippi where it cut through land. He entered New Orleans proper late in the afternoon. The buildings were tall, with wrought iron balustrades. Everything seemed sweeter then, bathed in the light of a setting sun. The city was so unlike Paris it made his breath catch.

What better place was there to find inspiration than the burgeoning frontier? New Orleans was a realm all of its own – entirely unique. The streets not so cramped, not so uniform. The buildings were tall, and stunningly decorated in a fashion that was emulated when the boulevards cut through the old medieval streets of Jehan’s home city. They spoke French here, too, but not as Jehan had ever heard it. It was beautiful, not half as precise, but all the more stunning because of it. He was enraptured, stumbling through the dusty, unpaved streets; thunderstruck. He looked up to the sky, and he breathed the air (thick with spice, and the scent of steamer smoke.)

Pulling his coat tighter to himself (the style all but extinct, an Imperial cut that he would never admit to liking in the company of his friends) he made his way to the very first building that looked like it had available rooms. It was charming, wooden and bowing in places like many cafes in the Latin Quarter, back home. Jehan made sure to wipe his boots before he stepped on the moth eaten carpet and shuffled quickly toward the desk, bag under his arm. His fingers were twitching, desperate to pen something about this beautiful outpost of past grandeur. He could see the stanza’s already, though he’d never considered himself the kind to write poetry about the inanimate he was fully prepared to write a sonnet to his new lover: the city of New Orleans. Beautiful as she was, and he’d been there only an hour.

His thoughts took him away, and he almost forgot to ring the bell, the thing that would call attention to him. He cleared his throat, tentative at first before he gave it a secure pat. He shifted, posturing. Jehan had broad shoulders, out of place with his long limbs and tapered waist. He was just an inch shy of tall. His nose was long and had the slightest point at the end. He had wild locks all drawn into careless placement at the back of his skull, and his dark eyes were wide as an owls, caught in between perpetual mirth and terror.  He was still handsome, despite this combination of features. Or carried an air about him that convinced others he was handsome. He swayed on his feet, about to clear his throat more loudly, hoping against hope someone would take pity, and turn toward him.

Jehan didn’t have to hope any longer. A woman with a kindly face and sun spots on her hands emerged from behind a set of double doors. She smiled, and he smiled back pleasantly, not aware – or uncaring about the gap in his teeth. She spoke, and for a moment, Jehan was so taken with her accent that he didn’t register her words. He blinked, lips parting before he was ready with any words.

“Can I help you?” She repeated, and Jehan startled himself into action, nodding quickly.

“Yes, yes I hope so. My name is- well, you may call me Prouvaire.” Jehan smiled, not wanting for forgo the pleasantries as a guest, and visitor. He didn’t want to leave an ill impression.

“Was it a room you wanted, chere?” She asked, finally. And there it was, that sweet lilt on the endearment, one that he’d rarely heard before.  He nodded quickly.

“Yes, yes _please…_ Madame.” Jehan snatched his hat off his head, having entirely forgotten it, and his manners for a moment, gesturing toward the staircase in question. The woman nodded, drawing a key for him, her palm outstretched. The exchange was brief, Jehan counted out his freshly acquired American tender into her palm, and she pressed back with cool iron. He grasped it, and thanked her once more, before he tucked his hat under his arm, and picked his bag up again.

His room was on the third floor. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he could’ve dreamed of all at once. The bed frame was made of some crude metal and it sagged. The bed covers were once fine, but now moth eaten. The curtains once a luscious velvet were dusty, and visibly mended. An echo of former grandeur. The room was simple, and beyond its prime. He could have followed up the street further and found himself a more distinguished establishment, but he had no desire. This was perfect. The furnishings had character. He was at liberty to find the place endearing, because he would go home to his fine Parisian apartment in a few weeks’ time, and be in comfort again. A rickety writing desk sat flush to the wall, under the window, so that it would be bathed in natural light. There was a balcony, narrow, and precarious, adjoining with other rooms, but Jehan didn’t mind. He put his bag down and quickly skirted the bed to approach the balcony doors. The glass panes were clean, and through them the last of the sun shone strongly. He twisted the latches and he stepped out.

Jehan breathed again, deeply, a sigh following soon after. The air was cleaner, here, the stench of the tanneries, and the filth, didn’t reach him so high above the street. Or perhaps this was what the American’s spoke of when they beautified their country in literature. Jehan would never find any city a rival to Paris, not really, but in his heart he let himself have this moment. He leaned against the railing and looked down. He could see shadows moving in salons, and bars, people filing in already, or gathered on the porches with drinks in hand. Laughing. Singing. Dancing. They were poor, Jehan thought. He’d never seen anyone with money dance like that in Paris.

His eyes drank this all in, each vivid colour and each character until all of it swirled together in his mind. He rested his chin on his hand, his eyes closing for a mere moment. A moment was all it took. His copper tinged lashes fluttered as he debated opening his eyes again, and so he did. Slowly. Letting his gaze track from the street toward the sky. His eyes never reached the clouds. Instead they stopped, frozen on a pale face that hadn’t been there before. Ruby lips, sweet, and plump, pressed into a tight pout. Eyes glittering like a pair of uncut emerald stones held up to the light. His hair was in loose intentional curls that spiralled about, and away from his face. He was standing close to the railing on the building opposite Jehan. He hadn’t seen the poet there, instead he was looking down into the street. He was only barely dressed, a flowing robe about his shoulders, his pantaloons cuffed with lace – Jehan suspected they were a woman’s garment.

If New Orleans was sweet, this figure was the very embodiment of it. He glowed with the heat. Dusted down with fine white powder.

Where had this boy come from? What was he doing? Jehan –though reluctant to look away from him – followed his gaze below. Someone in the street seemed to be looking up at him. And the boy grinned, and waved, a delicate flick of his wrist. The gesture was short. And soon the boy was withdrawing from his vantage on the balcony. His gaze raised and for a moment those eyes caught Jehan’s. The two of them met gazes in silence. The boy looked Jehan top to toe, slowly, disarmingly. And then, as if indifferent, he spun on his heel, and he slipped between the open doors through which he’d come.

The encounter was brief. But Jehan was enamoured by the brevity of it. Already his heart was thundering. Had he seen an angel? What creature was that? He was dumbfounded. If a face like that had been in Paris, he wouldn’t have left. Already he was forgetting what the boy looked like. The precise angles of his face. He could write verse after verse, construct stanzas on that countenance alone.

He only had the impression left to remember him by. And what an impression. Jehan stayed there, half in hope that the boy would return, or at least, venture close to the window. But he had melted away like hail the morning after a storm. He was gone. Not a trace of him left. That wouldn’t do. Simply wouldn’t do.

Jehan rushed, in a flurry of his coat tails and quick feet he rushed down stairs again, leaving the door of his bedroom open in his haste. He burst into the foyer with heavy breaths, pausing only a moment to compose himself, to brush a stray lock of hair back away from his face. Before he advanced quickly to the counter again, this time hitting the bell without hesitation.

The woman with the sunspots emerged again, her expression bemused at the sight of Jehan again so soon, dishevelled.

“Madame-“ He began, but was interrupted.

“Is there something wrong with the room?” She asked over him, their words running together. Both pausing with the faintest hint of discomfort.

“Oh, no, no certainly not. No.” He assured her quickly, shaking his head. “I had a question. I hoped you could tell me,” Jehan licked his lips, looking over his shoulder. Through the window at the building just a stone’s throw away! “Who owns that house? The one across from your fine establishment?”

When he finally turned his eyes back to her, a knowing look crossed her face. She shook her head. “You are a foreigner, so let me give you this advice: there’s no good to be found there.” She looked to where Jehan’s face had been fixed.

Perhaps there had been a miscommunication. A mistranslation. Jehan looked bemused. “I’m not sure I catch your meaning.” He replied, waiting for her to elaborate, almost to no avail. She considered him for a long moment, thoughtful, before she spoke.

“That house is the very den of sin. And no matter how beautiful their women, Monsieur, you must resist the temptation.” She reached out to rest a hand on Jehan’s arm, like a mother would. Perhaps she was a mother, Jehan didn’t know. “You will only be lead astray, and robbed of your every penny.”

Those words sank in slowly. _Oh._ Yes. Jehan had met women like those, they were in abundance in Paris. The poor things, with no other means. Nothing else to sell but themselves. But then… that boy… he shook his head. Face flushing. “I see.” He inclined his head. “Thank you, yes… I understand.” He withdrew, but the longing in him was enough that he felt like howling. Calling the boy back to the railing. To take one last look at him. To note his features in earnest, and write of him.

Those few moments he had stolen weren’t enough, and though he sat at his writing desk, pen drawn, poised above the page. The words did not come. Jehan’s fingers dragged through his hair, knees knocking beneath the desk. If he could only see him. Just once more. He would know. He would find the words.

Jehan could already feel it, the desire to express something that had not yet formed. An incomplete idea, beginning to be explored. The need to pen it a drum in the back of his skull. He waited. He watched the window until it was no longer the sun’s light that illuminated it. Instead the street lamps lit, and the windows shone from the inside. Still, no sign of him. Jehan felt a swell of despair. Had he been an apparition? Had he dreamed him? Had the heat and the excitement swelled and conspired to deceive all his senses?

It was so like him to latch onto something fleeting, and cling, try to make it last. His affections were passionate, and short lasting. But immortalised in his writing. There was no reason why he should see the boy again. Only that he was longing for it, knowing that the second strike would put beautiful words in him. He had dripped ink on the page, and some of it clung to his fingertips, and had been tracked across the skin that sloped down from where the jaw met the throat. His fingers had skittered there to tug pointlessly at stray locks of hair in his silent vigil.

It was late. And even the music carrying from the street as the city came to life couldn’t tempt his spirits to enliven again. There was only one thing now that would do. Houses and laneways, and tributaries and lakes wouldn’t do for a subject when the perfect subject lingered so close, and yet, so far. Jehan had all but given up hope of seeing him again. He was sinking slowly, coat thrown off, cravat loose; his collar wilting now from its previous stately position around his neck.

That was when it happened. When a slender figure appeared against the back drop of glass and wood. He was facing away. But Jehan caught sight of those dark loose curls, and his heart accelerated. He froze. Watching. Waiting. Silent.

Arms slipped around the slight waist, and drew the body away. Jehan rose to his feet, almost knocking his stack of novellas to the floor in his haste. But he couldn’t see, not from this angle. He walked to the next window, eyes combing through the darkness toward that one glistening light. They had moved. All Jehan could see now were the boy’s legs, the lace cuffs dangling at his calf, as someone (some man) slipped between them and – Jehan looked swiftly away. His face burning.

He felt, though he had seen nothing, as though he’d intruded upon something. Shamed, he swiftly drew the curtain across his window, the room flung into semi-darkness by it. He breathed slowly, deeply.

The urge to write had soured at the near glimpse of his quarry, and Jehan turned toward the sagging bed, falling on it fully clothed. He didn’t have the energy needed to throw his clothes off. And so, laying above the covers, he closed his eyes, willing his mind to forget the image now burned to his eyelids. It wasn’t his fault, he reasoned. The lights should be dimmed – the curtains closed, for such a profession to go on in plain sight.

Jehan neglected the fact that he had chased their image across the room. He’d rather lie to himself for now, and save himself the judgement.

\---

When the sun came up, her rosy fingers creeping between the gaps between curtains, Jehan rolled from his back to his front, and tried to burry himself in the pillow. He had almost forgotten the night before. The figure a mere figment of his imagination. He slowly got to his feet, the bed screaming in protest as his weight left it. He swayed a moment, disoriented, before he grounded himself by throwing a hand out to catch himself against the wall.

Perhaps forgetful, or uncaring, he fell into his boots, and he started down the stairs in his dishevelled clothes of the night before. He didn’t bother to so much as neaten a hair on his head when he entered the dining hall. He dropped down at a vacant table. And the women with the spots made her way to him.

“Good morning Monsieur Prouvaire.” She greeted, setting down a tea cup, and pouring him a liberal serving. He smiled, a wistful smile, and he took it with a soft ‘merci.’ “Did you sleep well?” She asked.

“Yes… yes exceptionally so.” He assured, nodding, before he took a sip. He had the sense to be embarrassed now that he’d woken properly. Looking down at the state he was in. But looking around the room, he seemed to be the best dressed of all the assembled guests. Which was an achievement, considering the outdated jumble of fashions he wore.

“Good… if you’d like to use the private baths they are through that door, and to your right. You will be able to wash away the…” She gestured at the dark finger-print stains on Jehan’s neck. He cleared his throat.

“The ink.” He finished for her, raising his hand to cover it. “Yes, thank you. I think I will.”

She turned, as if she meant to leave him alone, but then she stopped. She looked at him again. “How did it get there? If you don’t mind my asking. Were you writing?”

“No.” Jehan shook his head, “No I wasn’t- well, I was. I was going to.” Only after he’d finished did Jehan see how cryptic his words were written on her face. ‘I’m a poet.” He finished, lamely. She made a soft sound, a little ‘ah’ of comprehension. The kind of sound real working people made when they met an artist. He looked at his hands. “I’m not a very good one, you see… I haven’t written anything in months. Though I’m quite sure I’m on the verge of something. Quite sure.” He felt the need to both denigrate and defend his occupation. And she looked sympathetic.

“I hope you are right.” She bowed her head, and moved on to another table. Repeating her earlier motion. Producing a tea cup from a trolley, and pouring. He watched her for a time until his mind became idle, and began to drift, his dull eyes no longer focusing as his concentration drifted. A flash of green eyes and dark curls pulled at him, thoughts folding in on themselves until they were misshapen and creased into new forms. He closed his eyes against the day and let these thoughts stir him again.

He was right. If he could only see him again. Not just his back, or the flick of his ankle as some stranger pressed in on him. But really see. And there was only one way, only one that Jehan knew. Only one way to really get him alone.

He was resolved to do it then. Now. Now before his courage faltered again. He finished the last of his tea and he went back up the stairs to the third floor. He went into his room and he took from his suit case a fresh shirt, an ivory colour, and with it he chose taupe culottes. They were out of style, especially in the group of friends he spent a majority of his time. But there was no time to reconsider his choice. He splashed his face with water from a jug on his side table, and he tried to neaten his hair to no avail, it remained course and crackled with frizz against his fingers. He changed into his fresh clothes, making quick work of his cravat before he pulled on his finest waistcoat of a rich blue textile.

There was no going back now. He pocketed his key and a handful of bills before he marched resolutely down the stairs, and out the doors of his temporary home, directly across the street without pause, and through another set that yielded to him immediately. The contrast between the entry way he had just left, and the one he entered now was not lost on him despite the dark spots that blurred his vision on the transition from light to dark. The curtains were drawn. They too were of a soft thick material, but they were not left to waste. Instead, they were trimmed with gold edging, and mounted on bronzed curtain rods. Indeed, most of the room was of a similar theme.

It was all furnished with fine chaise lounges and upright arm chairs, upholstered in rich fabric in regal reds and purples. On some surfaces, men and women alike lay sprawled, asleep, in most cases. Jehan froze there. Absorbing this all, so engrossed that he jumped when he was addressed.

“We are closed, sir, all the ladies are asleep.” Jehan’s gaze flickered toward the sound. It was a man, his dark skin and bright eyes painting a handsome profile from where he stood, leaning by a piano.

“I wasn’t looking for a lady, there was a young man I particularly desired to speak with-“ Jehan began, words running together in his haste to clarify, to state his intention.

“Montparnasse.” The figure said, nodding slowly, he jerked his head at the ceiling. “Follow the stairs right to the top. You’ll find him.”

Montparnasse. Of course. A fitting name for his vision.

Jehan was already twisting the hem of his waistcoat in his hands. He breathed his thanks before he began up the stairs. The adrenaline disguised the weariness in his bandy legs. Sitting behind a desk did nothing to strengthen the muscles. It was the last thing he was thinking about as he reached the floor that corresponded with his own just across the street. He didn’t have to wonder how he would find this ‘Montparnasse.’ The doors were all open. And as Jehan passed he saw girls, and women, and their men all curled around bed covers. He stopped at the third fifth door, the one that was near where his own room would be a building away.

There he was. Lying like a cat in the sun, stretched out, nude from the waist up. His hair was disheveled, and on his neck indentations from teeth and lips left a mottled trail to his collar bone. His eyes were closed. But he wasn’t sleeping. He was too poised, and his movements too smooth for them to be sleeping adjustments. it was serene. He could have watched him forever, watched him simply twisting and sighing in the early morning sun. 

Jehan cleared his throat. And Montparnasse moved. Rolling onto his back, his head tipping toward the door, eyes opening with startling clarity. They were sharp, and discerning. The gaze was so piercing that a cold shiver threatened Jehan’s spine. Now he was close, Jehan could make out the little dark spot on his cheek. Makeup, he believed. And he could see, too, that what he’d attributed to powder before was a natural pallor. 

He was even more beautiful. And this close to him, Jehan was stunned. He stood there, silent, immovable. Montparnasse considered him silently before a grin twisted his lips. A dangerous grin, that promised Jehan’s heart folly. But when had he ever listened to warnings like those?

“Who are you?” Montparnasse asked, blinking slowly, as if weary. Jehan’s chest began to tighten.

“Jehan.” The poet answered, clearing his throat gently. The boy was speaking in some dialect that Jehan could only barely understand. But he knew that tone.

“Jehan.” Montparnasse tried it out, grin widening. And from that moment, he was lost to him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Jehan had never heard his name so beautiful recited. Framed by those lips, he doubted he ever would again. Inside his chest, butterfly’s wings’ beat furiously, desperate to escape the cage of his ribs. He swallowed and his adams apple rose and fell beneath the skin of his freckled throat. Anything intelligent he could have said never came. Instead, Jehan stepped forward. Drawn as a moth to an open flame by the simple, curious tilt of Montparnasse’s head.

“It’s an interesting name, you know.” The words rushed out of Jehan, wheezing almost. A flush already sweeping his cheeks, spreading wine-red across his face.

“What is?” Montparnasse asked. And again, Jehan was enamoured by that tone, by the way the sounds fell one after another from him so carelessly. Who taught him? His words sang like sirens. Jehan could drown.

“Montparnasse. Your name, I- I was told, that it was Montparnasse.” Jehan came to sit on a spindly legged stool, the mirror to his broad back. “I have a friend who lives there, in Paris. And they say that… the district itself, got its name from a rather obtrusive mound of dirt. Before they laid the stones for the road.”

“Oh?” Montparnasse twirled a dark curl around his finger. Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to make the short smile upturning the corners even shorter. Jehan’s mouth went dry. “My name isn’t really Montparnasse.”

Jehan’s face fell. Could the man downstairs have lied to him? Jehan had taken his word as creed. What reason did he have to lie? There was surely only one boy here who Jehan could possibly have meant. If there was any other, he was blind to it. “Oh.” Jehan echoed, though when he said it, it sounded more like the breeze that came from the bellows than the sweet little pique of interest Montparnasse had made it before. “What is it, then?”

Montparnasse seemed to have been waiting for that question, his teeth let go, he smiled in earnest. Perhaps, not earnest- there were few things Montparnasse did earnestly. But he approached the redhead with laboured steps and stood before him, his weight leaning to one side, his hips tilted, just so. “Whatever you would like.” Montparnasse replied, gentling now.

Jehan thought he misunderstood. Perhaps he meant something differently. He tilted his head up, raised it so that their eyes met. Those flashing gemstones shining brilliantly in the early morning sun. Dazzling Jehan. “I would call you Antinous.” Jehan’s words were little more than a murmur.

Montparnasse reached out to play with a lock of Jehan’s frazzled mop, gently, brushing it behind Jehan’s ear. He was so gentle it made the poet baulk. He wilfully forgot that these movements must be practiced. Finely choreographed, designed to draw in any man, and not just him. “Is he your lover?” Montparnasse asked. "I can pretend..."

At first, Jehan thought it a joke. He laughed. The sound was full and unbridled, it caught Montparnasse by surprise and for a moment something stirred beneath the pretty arrangement of his features. Something that made Jehan pause. Mourning the loss of Montparnasse’s touch as he withdrew a step. “He isn’t my lover, no. Hadrian’s, he’s- it was a silly thing to say.” Jehan was so used to his own company, and that of his friends, that those stories were well known. He could say as he pleased and he, or one of them, would always know.

But this boy looked offended. He retreated across the room with the grace of a ballerina poised, prepared to dance, and he came to his door, the very door he had walked through the day before, and into Jehan’s mind forever.

“Who is Hadrian?” Montparnasse asked. Looking back over his shoulder before he turned again. It was rather like a dance, how he came close, and retreated. Turned away, turned to him again. All the while Jehan was transfixed.

“He was an Emperor, a very long time ago.” Jehan replied simply. He was so much more, but Jehan was afraid to make that flicker return. To see Montparnasse shy away from him. He could not bear it.

“Like Napoleon.” Montparnasse replied, as if to prove he did know some things. Jehan’s heart swelled with affection.

“Yes, something like that.” He confirmed. Montparnasse seemed to be waiting and for a moment, his expression wilted as a weary rose would. Jehan couldn’t imagine why. but wanted to revive it. He jumped slightly as the thought struck him. “Oh of course, of course yes, I apologize.” He dug into his pocket for the money. Once he set it down atop an ornate hand mirror, Montparnasse came alive again.

As before, he crossed the groaning boards to Jehan. This time he reached for his hand and took it, “I like this colour on you.” He complimented. “Very handsome, monsieur.”

“Jehan. Call me Jehan.” _Please._

“Jehan.” Montparnasse corrected, softly, leading Jehan to his bed. Though it was the middle of the day, and it seemed absurd. Jehan had only just dressed and Montparnasse was already divesting him of the bright waistcoat, which fell to the floor. Jehan hadn’t the mind to complain. Montparnasse disarmed his wits the moment he said his name again.

He pushed the poet to the mattress and Jehan dropped down on it. He was as a rag doll, limbs free for Montparnasse to manipulate as he pleased. The younger fell to his knees, as if to pray, and Jehan’s throat closed around the expletive that almost came – God. There was no God in this room. The den of sin, the woman with her spots had called it.

Jehan couldn’t imagine it was a sin at all. Not when Montparnasse looked up at him, fingers nimble. Expert as they worked on his culottes. And just as Catullus found his Lesbia. Jehan found Montparnasse. Knees on the floor, fingers on Jehan’s thighs, lips spit-slick. Flushed when he surfaced for air and gasped.

 --

When it was over, Montparnasse wiped his mouth and sat before the mirror, eyeing his reflection demurely. His fingers rearranging his hair, head turning this way and that. Considering himself from each angle. He was indifferent to Jehan’s presence, and the sting made it all the sweeter. Jehan watched him for a time, laying in his bed, where the scent of him and his perfume clung to every inch of silk. And perhaps, too, the scents of other men. But Jehan’s nose chose to discern only Montparnasse.

“Will I see you again?” Jehan asked, his words a sigh. He had let his red hair free of its binding and when Montparnasse glanced back, he looked to him like a young lion. His mane of hair spread across Montparnasse’s own pillow.

“Will you?” Montparnasse retuned, a fine brow quirked.

“I think so.” Jehan answered, a dreamy quality to his gaze that made him look far away. Much further than the few feet between Montparnasse’s vanity, and the bed. “I would very much like to.”

“Then you will.” Montparnasse had turned back to himself. Perhaps he preferred his own company. Jehan had never done this before. Had no idea the etiquette- the prudence. Should he leave? Was Montparnasse hoping that he would? A cruel mistress already. Jehan disentangled himself from the bedding. He collected his clothes again, slowly dressing himself again, unable to find the ribbon with which he’d tied his hair, so he left it loose. Let it fall in uneven waves around his shoulders, his face.

“You said you had a friend in Paris.” The young man began, his gaze stilled fixed on himself, though now he could see the amorphous shape of Jehan moving behind him. A flash of red and cerulean blue. Those Prussian shoulders.

“I do. Many, in fact. I live there.” Jehan replied eagerly, pleased to know Montparnasse had heard and remembered. He buttoned his waistcoat, and for a moment their eyes met in the mirror. Did Montparnasse remember him, from the balcony across the street? Did he care to?

“What is it like?” Montparnasse asked, turning then to look back at Jehan. And for a moment he thought he saw sadness in those eyes. They were dulled by it. Still pretty, even so.

“It is... Well,” Jehan paused, how should he explain it? “It’s like no other place I’ve ever been. Rather like here, I suppose.” That didn’t seem to give Montparnasse the answer he wanted. But Jehan was excited. They’d spoken a few times now, and found they could understand each other well enough. It was progress.

The startling reality of who, and what, Montparnasse was returned when the shadow of another man filled the doorway. Jehan remembered himself. And again, there was a moment, as Montparnasse eyed his reflection. Where Jehan thought he glimpsed anguish. It was gone as quickly as it had come. And Montparnasse preened under the clumsy prose of the man who took Jehan’s place.

The poet sobered on his walk back across the street. As if ice cold water had been poured over him, making him cold to his bones. It was bittersweet. And Jehan feared if he returned to his room too soon he would see Montparnasse dance past his window again in another’s arms. He was not yet ready to torture himself. Instead he re-entered the foyer of his new home. Looking lost as a lamb.

Tea was poured for him, and after a moment, ink and dip-pen provided. Jehan retrieved the paper from his room. It lay dishevelled from the grip of his own hand the night before, and with two distinctive drops of ink. But his friends wouldn’t mind.

 

_Mes Amis,_

_I dearly miss all of you. New Orleans has been wicked to me thus far._

It felt a disservice. And a lie. Montparnasse was not wicked. It was Jehan’s own heart that betrayed him. Jehan scratched it out.

_New Orleans is not Paris, for all her charms. But she does not try to be Paris. Instead, she is some other animal. Some still yet untamed creature._

Better. He dipped his pen in ink again.

_I dearly miss you all. But I know that my absence will only make my heart grow fonder. It is already growing as I write. I sat down with the intention of detailing my foray into the South but thus far,_

Thus far he’d scarcely made farther than across the street. And yet he felt he’d seen everything there was to see already. It was far too soon to be sending letters. To be wasteful of paper. He didn’t let it dry. He folded it in half, and put it in his pocket instead.

“More tea, Monsieur Prouvaire?” She came again, and Jehan smiled politely.

“Ah, yes please… I’m sorry, did I catch your name?”

“Madame Sabine.” She said. A delightful name. Jehan opened her mouth to tell her so. But she had already passed him by now that his tea cup was full. He looked down into it. Missing café. Still, he took a sip. Fingers trembling against the porcelain with longing. If only Montparnasse knew how his heart was plagued already. How his mind spun madly with thoughts of him. How words longed to write themselves for miles about his beauty. The splendour – the spectacle of him, naked against the burgundy silk.

For the first time Jehan envied Grantaire’s art. Perhaps words were not enough. Though he would try. If not now, later. He finished his tea and rose to his feet. He had come to see this city, and he intended to see it. There was no remedy for the sickness that came with love like a walk. And though there was no Luxembourg garden, no Pont Neuf for him to traipse. There was a long winding street that hugged the river. And it was perhaps prettier than the Seine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a while! I'm sure many of you follow my other work, so I'm sure you know why. But, nonetheless, thank you for your patience if you're still reading. And I apologize for any errors. It's nearly 4am. I finally got time away from writing papers to post.


	3. Chapter 3

Was it not, then, entirely possible that Montparnasse did not exist? He was a figment of Jehan’s wild imagination. It had been wrought and sprung free of him – Montparnasse certainly existed outside of Jehan’s mind. In the hands of other men, even now. Warm and inviting. But the boy he held, looked down on, who said his name in such a way. Did he truly exist? Or did he conform to whatever he believed Jehan desired? Was he still that man outside of his bedroom?

He was a siren, who had grown legs, and clawed himself from the water onto the grassy knolls at the river bank. The current beat beneath the steamer Jehan came in on looked vile enough to have produced him. Not unlike Aphrodite. Though somehow more beautiful, so much so it bordered on vulgarity. There was no glittering sea. None of the flowing tresses but with all of the deadliness of eros.

Jehan had learned, that often, beauty was born from chaos. Chaos existed first. He read it in Hesiod in a stifling Parisian classroom at the Lycee Louis le Grand. Montparnasse had certainly come to be this way. There was no other explanation.

_And this, this city was Tartarus._

If only he had a friend to tell all of this to. Grantaire, perhaps. Who would laugh, and shake his head but would indulge all his waning poeticisms as he sank into the abyss. But he had no one, not a friend anywhere to. He felt so painfully alone as he tossed his hat from his head. Adjusting his crude brocade waistcoat, jacket forgone due to the oppressive heat. It was woven in the Italian style, very renaissance save for how it had been fashioned. It drew eyes wherever Jehan went, but he scarcely noticed.

No, he was still in mourning. Engulfed in mourning. He felt he needed a lock of the boy’s raven hair to better clutch at his memory.

He had every intention of exploring, but it had been three days since he’d seen Montparnasse in person, and his mind was eating itself. Famished by the lack of him. He couldn’t satisfy the hunger with long walks, or with Catullus. Or with any earthly thing. Montparnasse was certainly not of this earth. And that was why. He nourished Jehan’s soul as no single other thing could. So the young poet dashed out before Madame Sabine could make a suggestion for lunch. His body was secondary. He was starved of so much _more_.

The determination to see him, even for a second, had driven him to such madness. He could no longer sit by his window whimpering, wasting as he watched his angel fall into another’s arms.

He stormed the doors, with every intention of beating his fists, of crying out. Demanding _Oh! Why?_ Why torture him this way? In mere days, Jehan had been made a wreck of. His sensibilities dashed. Though he did none of these things, he did not howl for Montparnasse as the wolf did for the moon. Nor did he beat the door until it broke and bared for him the young man he sought.

Instead he stood there, body stiffened as if rigor mortis set in. Perhaps it had. Surely he died in wait for Montparnasse. He never even knocked. His breath heaving as he turned to cast a glance over his shoulder and see who had seen him. Jehan’s fingers flitted upward to drag back through unkempt, overlong locks, dragging them back toward the puce ribbon that bound the rest.

The old boards of the porch groaned underfoot as the poet regained some small amount of sense. It was the middle of the day, after all. And the boy was a night creature. He may still be sleeping. The drawn curtains suggested as much. Through the windows, which were already caked with a thin layer of fine dust, he could see only the backs of velvet drapes.

He was scarlet faced, still barely drawing breath. He took a staggering step backward, and then he turned on his heel, and he left the door well alone.

Jehan was in a deplorable state, but he felt no shame for it. There was no shame in love. There was only joy and agony, and anything else was negligible. He elected to walk, it was the sensible thing to do. He had thus far confined himself to the French quarter, which allowed him to remain in the comfort of his mother tongue, for the most part. And though he had come with some vague ambition of exploring the whole city, he had forgotten it entirely.

To stray too far would take him beyond the reach of Montparnasse entirely. He crested Dumaine Street with a bitter sigh. Along Rampart, toward St. Peter. Trying, failing, to marvel at the wide breadth of the streets, and the distance between buildings. Such room they had here in the States. If his heart were not already so determined to be miserable, he’d admire it more.

With the best of intentions, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and made for Jackson Square. It was a historic site. The Louisiana purchase of 1803 had taken place there, and Jehan had retained some notion of that knowledge from lectures his father gave him. History, law, philosophy, those were the pillars of society, according to Monsieur Prouvaire. Not these romantic notions Jean had been consumed with since his youth.

But Jehan found himself more interested with the women, drawing their dresses up to let the breeze catch their skirts. And with the surly men, in various states of undress, gathered under trees, sprawled in the grass. All dotted about the sprawling park where the air was cleaner, among the overgrown hedgerows. The cathedral provided relative shelter from the harsh sun where Jehan stood, opposed to it all across the street. The sight breathed new life into him, allowed him to find the strength necessary to leave the holy shadow and cross to lose himself among the crowd of not-quite-American’s, though neither-Parisians.

And then he saw _him_. Gasping. A vision. Resplendent on the grass. Unlike the others, Montparnasse hadn’t shed an article of clothing. And it occurred to Jehan, that this was the most he’d seen him wear in all the time he had known him (days? Only days? No, he had known Montparnasse all his life, his soul had sung of him for moons and moons.)

Immovable yet again, Jehan watched him. He had a parasol to keep his lily-white skin from being kissed by the rosy fingers of the sun. It had black trim that swayed with the wind, decadent lace disguising the stiffer material that gave the canopy it’s shape. From top to bottom, he was dressed in the costume of a Parisian. Looking at him, this could have been the Place des Vosges, the very place it had been modelled to imitate. His cravat was strung tight at his throat, a brilliant scarlet bow protruding beneath his fine chin. Collar high. Coat tapered beautifully. His figure drawn in as tightly as the women laced into their corsets. All in black. The soles of his shoes were exposed – and they were worn. Truly, every article carefully selected showed graceful age. This only made him more beautiful, to Jehan.

He watched that haughty, pretty face turn, and sigh, and leer indifferently at anyone who dared pass by. Oh, _God._ Jehan’s hand clutched his chest, his heart heaving an almighty wail as he fought not to draw nearer.

And he was there alone. Such a crime, in and of itself. Jehan longed to rectify it, to do the other justice and take up the space by his side, if only to see him more clearly, closely. After a moment of internal debate, a Waterloo of mind and spirit, Jehan relented. The wind caught him as he moved, blowing his wiry locks about his face as he crossed the park, accompanied by a heart-string quartet which played out his funerary dirge.

His figure blocked the sun. Cast a brilliant shadow upon Montparnasse as the boy turned his head to see where the disturbance came from. He looked at Jehan, haloed by the burning sun, making burnished flames of his red hair where the light caught it. The expression scarcely changed, as if he didn’t know him. It broke the poet a moment, until happiness -perhaps feigned- stole and animated the boy’s features. Lips curling, lashes fluttering.

“Jehan.”

 _Yes_.

“Montparnasse.” The poet’s mouth was decidedly dryer now than it had been before the other spoke his name. “It’s a terrible shame to be here alone. Are you, are you perhaps – waiting on someone? A friend?” The look on Montparnasse’s face as he spoke showed that, again, he was struggling to understand. Processing Jehan’s Parisian French a word at a time, stringing them together, then, to try and derive meaning.

“No,” Montparnasse clipped. “No. I’m alone.” He let the hand not occupied by the parasol wander the curve of his side, searching for a resting place. “I’m after the breeze. There isn’t any in the house. The walls trap the heat, you know. It’s too warm… not at all like here.” It sounded like a lot of nonsense to Jehan, a sentence that could have been expressed in a handful of the words Montparnasse chose to bite out. But the frivolity of it appealed to Jehan immensely. And he sank to his knees before him.

“Of course, yes. I- yes I imagine it is.” He nodded, fingers curled into fists, wrapping against his knees lightly. “You look…” Before Jehan could finish, he was interrupted.

“What about you, hm? I doubt it would be so warm in Paris. Have you come to cool down?” Montparnasse’s lithe fingers caressed the ivory handle in his grip as he spoke. Was he never still? Jehan hoped not. Always in motion.

“I came to find you.” Jehan blurted out. It was a lie, he hadn’t come here to find Montparnasse, specifically. But he had been in want of him. And his feet had lead Jehan here. Why, then? If not to find him? Any notion of history was forgotten.

That answer surprised the boy. Who reeled, drawing up slightly to examine Jehan from that distance. “Me? Oh, Monsieur if you are looking for me, you only need to look through your window.” _Come to me there_ his gaze said. Unblinking, heavy enough to weigh Jehan down; Atlas holding the sky above their heads.

“I have tried.” _And your curtains are drawn. And you are with other men._ “I thought, perhaps you would tire of me if you saw me too often.” Jehan’s voice was unduly ragged. Drawn roughly from the back of his throat like wind from the bellows.

“I will not tire of you.” Montparnasse replied. “Nor your purse.” He added, coldly, cruelly. Twisting the knife in Jehan’s gut without remorse. But he loved it, truly, he did. The agony that jolted his system was divine.

“Then, tonight? Will I see you?” Desperation, quite blatant at that.

“That’s up to you now, isn’t it.” Montparnasse returned, his French rather clumsy again, as if he didn’t much care. Jehan noted the ‘tu’ with a hopeful upturn of his lips.

 

\---

That night, when all were asleep, and Jehan was left lit only by candles, his dip-pen danced across the page. No longer conforming to the grain of the paper, his words traversed lawlessly from end to end. Running from him, quick, thick and odorous as blood. And when he raised his head, he could see Montparnasse, engaged in his own dance. So near the window tonight, not as before. Tantalizingly close. So that Jehan felt if he reached across from his balcony, he could touch him. But he couldn’t, and someone else did. A faceless figure that consisted of only hands that traced down his spine and up again.

Jehan had wasted time. Fingers near clawing hair from his scalp at the frustration rising in his chest. He ought to be there. Those hands his hands, his lips upon Montparnasse’s lips. But there was time, yet. The night was young enough. And sleep would continue its illusive game of hide and seek until Jehan had vetted his desire.

He wandered onto the street as spectres haunt: listless and dreamy, unseeing. A soul that had left body behind. The oil lamps cast a ghostly shadow on everything, so that Jehan’s guilt could take form in the darkness. So that he could imagine eyes on his back, staring out from it at him.

Nevertheless, he stopped at nothing. The parlour was warm with laughter and swaying bodies, the lounges filled with impatient men and women locked together, skirts high, trousers slack. The scent of wine and sex so potent it was almost Dionysiac. He was intoxicated by the fumes of it, pace frenetic as he took to the familiar, winding staircase. The last floor, the room across from his own.

Montparnasse waited for him there. Laying on the bed, curls tousled, head turned. His skin glistening with sweat caused either by the heat, or another’s touch. He was heavenly. The poet was overcome with the need to genuflect as he observed him from the door, trembling, before he pulled it shut. No one else should see.

He imagined himself both in this room, and in the hotel across from it. Watching from his window, pen in hand, watching himself. Watching Montparnasse.

“You came.” Montparnasse breathed, delighted. It was a lie, but a sweet one. Jehan swayed on his feet, lurching toward him. Making short work of the distance that separated them, until he was at the boy’s bed side.

Jehan dropped down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch him, tentatively. His skin was faintly slick, but soft. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” He asked.

“I wasn’t sure.”

 _You were. You knew and called, came to the window and–_ “I could not resist.” Jehan’s more powerful words were reserved for the paper, and for his other self. The man who sat in his apartment and wrote. Crafted stanzas in Montparnasse’s shape.  Perhaps it was he who did not exist. “I-“

Again, Montparnasse interrupted. Though this time with a kiss. He kissed roughly, hungrily, devouring Jehan with a butcher’s grace. Blades singing as they carved him away from himself. Jehan kissed him back, lowering him down to the bed again until his spine was flush with the mattress.

There was no time, none at all. Jehan felt as if he was never going to be near enough. Frantic as he clawed at the draw strings on his trousers, and at the gathered material at Montparnasse’s waist. He dragged the undergarment away, letting it fall carelessly onto the floor. His breath laboured as he looked upon Montparnasse, bare. Legs knowingly spread, head turned in mock shame. It was for show, he was in no way demure but all the same Jehan felt called to soothe. He moved slowly, kissing down his chest, across the hollow of his belly, purposefully avoiding the place he most wanted to be touched in favour of kissing the insides of the younger’s thighs.

Montparnasse keened. And Jehan’s face flushed. He reached for the side table, for the open jar of thick salve always waiting there. He slicked his fingers with it. “There, now, it’s alright…” of course it was. Jehan wasn’t his first, but he squirmed and played as if he were. Montparnasse was only tight because his body clenched at the invasion of the poet’s fingers. Which earned another gentle coo from Jehan as he circled the rim of his entrance. It was far too easy. He had already been worked open.

By who? What man? Jehan’s heart broke at the thought, though he knew already, and had seen. The confirmation was too much. And all that mended him was the breathy ‘Jehan’ that left Montparnasse when he stilled, hips rolling downward, desperately seeking friction.

He obliged. Inserting a second finger. Fucking him with both in a rhythmic jaunt, watching as Montparnasse swayed and pitched. Eyes fluttering shut, lips apart, kissed rosy and full. “More.” He pleaded. Jehan obliged. A third thick finger. He was silent now, watching unblinkingly as Montparnasse fucked himself down onto it. Set alight by the mere sight of him. Debauched did not begin to describe it. The greed with which Montparnasse sought pleasure, uncaring of Jehan’s own.

His cock was hard, and having forgotten himself, it took the painful ache to remind Jehan why he had come. He swallowed a shallow breath, drawing his fingers away. Ignoring the whimper his lover gave at the loss. “Just a moment, I’ll give you something better. Patience, turtledove, I beg you.” Jehan’s voice was broken already, he reached into his trousers to free himself, rub his length with the remaining stickiness, and then he lined himself up. Arms snaking beneath Montparnasse to lift his lower half. His shoulders remained arched back against the mattress as he lined up, and for a moment, his eyes opened. They fixed on Jehan.

Struck by the emptiness in that gaze, Jehan stilled.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken me some time, I've had a rough run of things lately! My health has been pretty spotty, but I'm getting answers, and now that a new year has started, I'm trying to get back on top of my creative ventures. So, I apologise for leaving all my readers hanging on both fics, but of the two, this one is the less intricate, and it is much easier to finish chapter drafts! I'm so sorry for oppressively romantic Jehan, I can't help myself. He gives me a fantastic excuse to run wild with the neo-classical romanticism.

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, I only wrote this fic because some of the characterization of Montparnasse in J/M bothers me a bit, and I wanted to see the dynamic explored in the way I could visualize it. I do have some vague plan for where this is headed, so if anyone's interested, I'll continue it. As usual, I'm trying to be as historically accurate as possible, but forgive me if I make a few little slip ups here or there - American history isn't my main area. Sorry for any errors, I combed over it, but it's quite late here, so I might've missed some things!  
> any questions, you'll find me at embastiller.tumblr.com !


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